Misfit
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: I'm baaaaack. Loved the S5E1 premiere, of course, and I started writing a one-shot inspired by THHRW (The Hug Heard 'Round the World"). A one-shot that is...no longer a one-shot. Some reunion thoughts and pre-ZA musings, and, of course, eventual Caryl. Rated T due to addressing domestic/child abuse and occasional swear word.
1. Blood is Blood

Historically, the Dixons never really did fit in. They didn't really care to. There was an orneriness embedded in their general approach to life that prohibited inclusion, except with each other.

"Blood is blood," Daddy loved to growl morosely from where he was ensconced in the ratty Lay-Z-Boy in front of the blaring, fuzzy television. Surrounded by a flock of spent, crumpled Schlitz cans, like shiny dead birds.

Daryl wasn't sure if he meant the blood from his split lip or something else. He just knew that being a Dixon had marked him in ways he couldn't see. But others could, from as far back as he could remember.

"Screw 'em!" Merle would shout when Daryl would return from school with a black eye or torn jeans. "Screw those pansies, little brother. You got whatcha need right here. You don't need nuthin' else. Right, Daddy?" And Daddy would nod and grunt and Daryl would walk away and peek in at Momma, sleeping in her tiny bedroom. Sometimes, there'd be a lit cigarette or a half-filled glass of whisky clutched loosely in one of her hands, dangling over the side. Daryl would tiptoe in, quiet, quiet, quiet and ease the danger away from Momma. He had always wondered what would happen if he didn't catch the glass or put out the cigarette in time. He found out soon enough.

And because he was a Dixon, he learned to dole out his own pain. Never to Daddy, but the kids at school learned to be cautious around him when he'd show up like a stray dog, inconsistent but never completely disappearing from classes or the dusty school yard.

All too soon, it was just he and Daddy, with Merle in juvvie and Momma in Heaven (_Really? You believe that, you fool? Even God would have a hard time findin' a place for a Dixon…_) and the tension in their cramped, falling-apart house crackled like electricity. Even at thirteen, Daryl realized that he didn't fit in at all, even with his own family. Something about him set his father's teeth on edge, like a song played slightly out of tune.

One day he came home with a schoolyard gash across his left cheek. Daddy took one look at it and got to his feet. For one crazy moment, Daryl though his father's hand was reaching out to caress his son's wound. But it was a fist, and it contacted with Daryl's right temple.

And later, when he woke to an empty house, crawling slowly to the bathroom to survey the damage in the warped mirror, he stared for a very long time at his battered face.

And for the life of him, couldn't see the difference between the blood dripping from either side of his battered face.

"Blood is blood," he sighed, and began to clean himself up.


	2. Twinkle Twinkle

When she thought about it at all, Carol remembered three things (_like the Father, Son & Holy Ghost…_) from her wedding day:

The first was the twisty, fluttery feeling of the tiny creature that would become her daughter move for the first time inside of her, the very moment, she, Carol, grasped the hand of the man that was the keeper of her soul and the master of her body.

This body, in which something precious was growing, yes, but also in which something was dying: because the second thing Carol remembers from that day in a tiny, plain chapel with a few disinterested relatives and Ed's drinking buddies (who all really looked like they wished the marryin' part was over and the drinkin' part would start) was how much her body hurt, all of the parts of her hidden by her long-sleeved white dress, and how the pain seemed to seep beyond her bruised and cut flesh, sink into her bones.

And how could she live like this? But how could she _not _live, with her daughter blooming inside of her, next to the fear and the worry and the self-recrimination? But who would be born out of this cocktail of pain and deference? Who was she making? What sort of life would result from these choices she had made, these choices she hadn't made?

But mostly, when she makes herself remember that day, she remembers…

…stepping outside into the chilly early- fall air, goose bumps rising on her arms, even under those required long sleeves. The door to the honky-tonk whooshing softly shut behind her, muffling the grinding tones of the house band, the cawing laughter of bar patrons, and most importantly, the bellowing roars of her newly-minted husband and his intoxicated friends.

She hugs herself, knowing it's the most affection she'll get on this, her wedding night. Her baby, her girl, moves again, and Carol's hands travel to her slightly swelled stomach. She forgets the dingy parking lot and gazes up at the clear, cold sky, hums under her breath. She opens her mouth, sings quietly.

"Twinkle, twinkle little star,

How I wonder what you are…"

The baby flips around inside her in approval, and Carol clutches her stomach tightly. And wonders.


	3. Wedged In

He escaped that second house, the one he shared with his father, after the family home was so much cigarette ash and the vague, fading memory of his mother. He abandoned his father to his lounger and temperamental TV and sullen rage. He'd have to buy a dog if he wanted to beat on something, fifteen-year-old Daryl figured.

He wedged himself into various places and spaces, trying to make himself small enough to fit. There was a friend of his Momma's, Suzanne, who lived one town over. That seemed far away enough at first, and Suzanne seemed happy to have the company in her cramped bungalow, which smelled of overcooked frozen dinners and heavy, flowery perfume. She went to the local high school, convinced them she was his aunt. He even attended classes a few times a week.

He got into a locker-slamming fight with Wayne from history class about a month in. Something about Daryl lookin' too long and hard at Wayne's girl. Which he had been, and he knew it. Becky had eyes the color of an angel's and blond hair that spilled down her back like a cloud. She was too perfect, really, to even exist. Daryl looked at her all the time to confirm she was really part of this world.

He stumbled back to Suzanne's with what he suspected were several cracked ribs. She rushed to him in her cloud of fragrance, practically threw him on her clean but sagging plaid-covered sofa.

"Let's see what ya got," she squinted at him through a lazy line of cigarette smoke, gesturing for him to lift his shirt.

He did so willingly enough, grunting when she pressed gently on his left side. Hurt.

"Yep, you did a number on yourself," she nodded, pressing down a bit more. He winced, looked away. Tried not to yelp. "For sure," she pressed again, harder now, at the sore spot on his torso. He glanced back at her, jerked his shirt down. She pulled her hand lazily away. Her eyes, gazing at him from her worn, uninteresting middle-aged face, reminded him of the large jungle cats he saw on nature shows. Right before they pounced and devoured. His heart sped up in his narrow, teenaged boy's chest.

"Sorry, that musta hurt," she finally spoke. Her hand was creeping down towards the waistband of his dirty jeans. "That's probably better." She pressed. His body responded, his mind screamed. She grinned a little, stubbed out her cigarette. She stood up.

"I'll go grab somethin' we can bind that ribcage with, alright?" She seemed satisfied, sure of herself. She sauntered towards the bathroom.

Without thinking, he jumped up and ran from the tiny house, grabbing her wallet, which was sitting on the hall table on his way out. He ran through the dingy streets until he couldn't ignore his burning side anymore. He turned down an alley behind a barbeque place, pressed himself close, close, close against the blue metal dumpster. The smells of roasting meat and spilled beer were so strong he almost couldn't smell her perfume anymore.

He opened the wallet. There were two twenties, a single, a quarter and a penny. He took the one credit card it contained, then tossed the thing aside. It was the first time he'd stolen something that was worth anything to someone. But if he was the thief, why did he feel like something of his was missing?

He crammed the cash into his pocket, clutched the credit card tightly. It bit into his palm. He pulled his knees up towards his chest, even though it hurt like a bitch.

The clatter of pans and the kitchen staff shouting jocularly at each other floated into his ears. A rat scuttled by, uninterested in his human problems. Pink began to bleed into the Georgia twilight.

Daryl put his head on his knees, and wept.


	4. Sure Do

Carol always loved mid-October, and as a married woman, she loved it even more. Not that she would admit that out loud, or even to herself.

She would tell herself that she loved the way the leaves would begin to be edged with rusty, rich red. The way the trees would bend gracefully, dance in the lifting winds. The way the sun would shine bright as a quarter in the sky, but she still needed her ratty cardigan to keep out the chill. How she could, with scraps and bits and bobs from around there little one-story house, slap together a perfectly adorable Halloween costume for Sophia.

She wouldn't tell herself that it was because it was hunting season.

She wouldn't tell herself that once Ed realized that the time of year where he had the perfect, legal excuse to release the rage that lived inside of him for weeks at time, out in the woods with his friends and his beer and the occasional female guest, he became happier, his tread on the squeaky floors lighter, his hand across her face, more likely to be open, not closed in a fist.

And he would be _gone. _Gone for _days at a time. _

She only sought his absence. It never, not once, crossed her mind, to leave for good. To where? To whom? It was a joke with an extremely unfunny punch line. Carol had three things in her life: Jesus, Ed and her precious daughter. This was life. Temporary relief was the best the likes of her could hope for.

And now she stands at her old but clean stove, stirring a batch of homemade red sauce. She turns the knob and the burner clicks to life. She sets it on simmer, looking forward to the rich, homey smell that will fill the house as it cooks down.

"What dat, Momma?" Two-year-old Sophia asks from her highchair, where she's systematically washing her face with oatmeal. "What on the 'tove?"

"Sketti sauce, Bug," Carol crosses to her, wipes her sticky cheeks. "You like noodles with sauce, right, baby? We'll have enough for days and days and days". _We could live on sketti sauce and noodles the entire time your Daddy's gone…_

"Sure do, Momma!" And Carol laughs a real laugh that comes from the last untouched, unsoiled place inside of her, because "sure do" is a Sophia-ism that doesn't come from her or Ed. It's something the child started saying all on her own, and it reminds Carol forcibly that Sophia is separate, not-them. She is her own person. And maybe that person can be saved from this life.

Ed stomps in then, and Carol sees the wariness that enters her daughter's gaze. She loves her Daddy, but she's afraid of him.

"Hi Daddy," she says, somewhat subdued, shovels some more oatmeal in.

"Hey, Junebug," Ed turns to his daughter, lays one big hand on her tiny blond skull. Carol gets up, walks away. It's too easy to picture that hand squeezing, squeezing, until…but she cuts herself off, goes to check on the sauce. It's not even warm yet. Some things take time. She stirs it absentmindedly anyway. _He's never laid a finger on her, there's no reason to think he'd ever…_

Sophia is shrieking and Carol's heart seizes in her chest. She turns, and she realizes that they are shrieks of delight: Ed is tossing his toddler girl up in the air like a sack of feathers, her cornsilk strands brushing the pressed-tin ceiling. Sophia is pink-faced and giggling crazily. She starts hiccupping.

Carol can picture all too easily what will happen next. She turns back to her spaghetti sauce, says in as pliable voice as possible, "Ed, you might want to let her tummy settle, all that oatmeal…"

"You sassin', woman?" The breathless whoosh of the child-tossing has stopped. Sophia is still hiccupping.

"No, not all," she grips the wooden handle of the spatula, letting it cut into her palm, hoping this will blow over. A cloud, not a storm. He's in a good mood, it's the first day of hunting season. She stares intently at the sauce, which is just getting warm.

"Whatchu say? Can't hear ya, mumblin' like that. Speak up, woman!" And he grabs her with his free hand, and she really thinks to herself, he doesn't _mean_ to, what happens next is completely an accident and he had no intention of _hurting _her, maybe he just wanted to _clarify _a few things is all…

Her spatula is still in the pot, and she's dragged away from the stove by one meaty paw, taking the whole thing with her. Before she knows it, she's on floor, gasping, covered in warm spaghetti sauce. (_What if it had been hot? What if he'd come in a half an hour later?) _ Ed is standing over her, looking as startled as Sophia does, goggling from the crook of his arm.

He sets their daughter down beside her. "Clean this mess up. Clean _yourself_ up." He dismisses himself, walks out the front door, without a glance back.

Sophia's got her thumb in her mouth. She's too quiet already, too quiet for a girl little more than a baby. But she knows when to keep her mouth shut, her body still.

"Momma, you all red," she finally says, toddles over. Carol reaches out to make sure she doesn't slip in the mess. She leaves red fingerprints on Sophia's yellow jumper. "No more sketti sauce for Sophia and Momma? All gone?"

"All gone, Bug," Carol sighs, wiping her face clean with her cardigan. "But we do fine while Daddy's out hunting, right?"

"Sure do, Momma. Sure do."


	5. Reclaimed

Merle found him, somehow, the way a dog sniffs out a trembling rabbit. Daryl spent his late teens staggering in an ever-changing circle of people willing to put up with his presence on their couches or spare mattress in return for the various amorphous forms of payments: deliverer of ill-gotten or illegal goods, an extra pair of fists in a shakedown, and, when he was particularly desperate, as a warm body to manipulate to their will. He never forgot the gag-inducing smell of Suzanne's perfume or the fleeting, momentary freedom the $41.26 in her stolen wallet offered him.

His brother did find him though; it was a few days after Daryl's twenty-first birthday. Honestly, it was bound to happen; he didn't ever stray too far from home, either on the map or in his heart. Daryl remembers that day so clearly, even though his brother's face, before he turned, is becoming just a bit fuzzy around the edges. But that day. That day when he was reclaimed. He remembers.

The sun was sinking in the west, in a trippy, typical Georgia display of color and light. He was standing by the pool table towards the back of the dive he did a lot of his questionable business in, sipping a beer and resting on his cue as the other guy took his shot. He felt oddly peaceful, for the moment. He was legal. He wasn't in jail. He had a few dollars in his pocket, the big-eyed, light-haired bartender, Julie, was feeding him a steady stream of free beer and sandwiches with something more than just general friendliness. Daryl was contemplating the idea of having a woman he wanted in his bed tonight. It was a terrifying and exciting concept.

He drained his beer faster than necessary, headed back to the bar for a refill of both liquid refreshment and Julie's ready smile.

"Hey, Trouble," she took the glass, rinsed it, refilled and passed it over to him. He grabbed it, brushing his rough fingertips over the soft, wet back of her hand. Something jumped deep in his guts, his loins. She smiled a secret smile at him, and turned to grab a bottle of whisky off the shelf.

"Birthday shot?" She questioned. But the minute she unscrewed the top, he was struck with a wave of nausea and bone-deep sadness. Whisky smelled like home, like his hated father, his missing brother, his dead mother.

"Don't drink whisky," he grumbled, and she saw her expression soften from flirty to something more.

"Don't blame you, it's shit," she pulled another bottle from the shelf. "Belvedere. Vodka. Beverage of classy men the world 'round". She poured two large shots of the crystal-clear liquid and raised her glass to him.

"Here's to twenty-one," she tipped her glass at him. "Here's to freedom. Here's to getting outta this shithole." She tossed it back, and he watched her throat work. She was a girl that slung drinks and fended off slags all night, every night, five days a week. Losers and grafters and drifters and clowns like him. She was a bright spot of light in the dark. And he was a moth to her flame.

"It's not a shithole," he mutters, throwing his own drink back. It was smooth and warmed his belly. She grinned at him again, and the temperature in his midsection went up again. He bet the skin behind her ear was soft.

"No? How you figure?"

"Well, it's not a _complete _shithole, you know, cuz – "and she saves him from floundering and looking too long into her bright blue eyes by leaning her athletic form over the bar and planting a chaste but promising kiss by his left ear, right where _he _wanted to kiss _her_.

"I know," she smiles at him. "You're sweet, though you try to pretend you ain't. Play more pool, don't drink too much. I've got the early shift. Be done by 9. Can you hang on 'til then?"

"Well, seein' how I'm the best pool player in this joint and you're in charge of the alcohol, guess I can manage," he feels good. He feels great.

He turns away from Julie and her blond waterfall of hair and her field hockey player's body and meanders back to the pool table. He plays for the next hour, glancing more often than is necessary at the clock, which seems to be taking its sweet old time to reach nine o'clock. He can feel the weight of Julie's presence behind him, the promise of her. He's nearly finished his final round, his heart picking up the pace in his chest. Suddenly the door bursts open. There are three men standing there. One is from his dreams, his nightmares.

"Darylllleeennnnnaa," the specter whoops in raspy triumph. "Figured I'd find you in one of these hidey-holes, boy!" And suddenly he's engulfed in an overpowering, irresistible cloud of his brother's masculinity: sweat, grease, barbeque and whisky, of course. Always whisky.

"You been hidin' from me, boy?" He yanks Daryl's ear only quasi-playfully, brushing against the exact spot where Julie's kiss lingers. "My little brother, you all!" He sweeps his hands wide, addressing the entire bar. "He's just 21, if my memory serves me correctly, and it does, and we're gonna get this boy laaaaaiiiidd tonight. Oh yeah."

And before Daryl can do anything, he's reclaimed. Pulled away from the pool table and Julie and her cold, clear vodka and clear blue eyes, her compact body.

Drawn back into a cloud of Jim Beam and cigarettes, a haze of strip clubs. The almost-welcome scrape of his brother's voice.

Clarity discarded for confusion. He's twenty-one after all. Right? RIGHT?


End file.
